This helps explain why I was surprised when my girlfriend disliked college food. It was so much better than what I was used to.

Rachelle courted me with her cooking. We’ve been married 38 well-fed years.

She is a superb cook. (I won’t mention the green waffles, from trying out the new waffle iron without cleaning its plates first. Or the pink gravy, when the wine-infused chicken broth didn’t infuse.)

Don’t eat the freezer door

Unlike me, Rachelle also has a talent for fixing things around the house. One Thanksgiving, she decided to replace the failed gasket inside the freezer door. Ahead of time, she had made sure to purchase the precisely correct gasket.

I politely, or so I thought, suggested that Thanksgiving Day might not be the best time to do this, because repairs rarely go as intended.

My suggestion was not perceived as helpful. Rachelle was set on repairing the freezer, and she had plenty of time before our evening dinner.

The dining room table became her workbench. She removed the freezer door, carried it into the dining room and proceeded to remove the old gasket.

Plastic pieces — the thingamajigs for holding the gasket in place — also broke off.

The new gasket refused to stretch enough to fit the door.

And, of course, the old gasket wouldn’t go back on either.

By the time Rachelle got the gasket-less door back on the freezer, the dining room table cleared off, and the food cooked, 10 o’clock had arrived. The lateness of the hour matched the depths of our irritations.

Though I don’t remember it, I’m sure the meal itself was fine. Probably excellent. And because we are a family of storytellers, this has become one of our favorite Thanksgiving stories. We also instituted a new rule, one that has caused occasional family debates about the definition of “major”: Mom is not allowed to do major appliance repairs on major holidays.

For example, one person, who shall remain nameless, offered this account: “My former wife dropped a cooked turkey on the kitchen floor, right before dinner. Because she had basted it minutes before, it slid a long way. I scooped it up like a goalie covering a puck, placed it back in the aluminum roaster and our guests never knew that their turkey had made one last escape effort before being devoured.”

Don’t you dare tell Mom

My Thanksgiving disaster was in eating, not cooking.

Our son was home for the holiday. While Rachelle was preparing our family feast, I took him out for coffee.

(Our offspring dread “Going for Coffee with Dad” — especially when I suggest they bring a tablet to take notes. They assume it means a lecture about something. They’ll text each other from across the country if they get wind that I’m on the prowl for coffee time.)

However, our son did not drink coffee. We wound up at Bentley’s Grill in downtown Salem, planning to chat over diet colas.

Lacking a Thanksgiving dinner reservation, we were seated at the bar, where we ordered our sodas. After a while, the bartender came by and said we were welcome to start the buffet anytime.

Matt and I looked at each other. The staff had assumed we were there for the buffet.

What to do? Mom was getting dinner ready at home. But neither did we want to shortchange the nice people at Bentley’s.

Off to the buffet line we went. And maybe we had seconds.

Pleasantly stuffed, we vowed not to tell Mom.

Naturally, as soon as we walked in the door, we both told her.

I’ve never intentionally kept anything from Rachelle. Maybe that’s why she puts up with me.

She smiled and forgave our pre-dinner buffet.

Dick Hughes, who obtained his wife’s permission to share these stories, is editorial page editor and storytelling coach for the Statesman Journal. Contact him at dhughes@StatesmanJournal.com; P.O. Box 13009, Salem, OR 97309; or (503) 399-6727.